


Far From the Carnage of the Fiery Sun (The Dark Disguise Remix)

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Amnesia, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Meld, Minor Character Death, Mirror Universe, Mythology - Freeform, POV Male Character, Remix, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-11 05:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"When you wake, you will be my Ar'eliy."</em> And for five long years, that's who McCoy is until Kirk arrives on another mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far From the Carnage of the Fiery Sun (The Dark Disguise Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wings Unto the Weary Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1318) by emiliglia. 



> This fic is a remix of [Wings Unto the Weary Heart](http://emiliglia.livejournal.com/372470.html?style=mine) by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/emiliglia/profile)[**emiliglia**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/emiliglia/) and was written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/profile)[**issenterprise**](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/) [Mirror!Verse Remix Challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/issenterprise/tag/remix%20challenge). And a bajillion and a half thanks to [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lunesque**](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/) for a ton of hand holding and especially for the beta.

**I.**

McCoy inhales, the breath burning sharp in his lungs as he chokes on the smoke and dust around him. He rapidly blinks, eyes watering, and tries to make sense of the sky. He was in a building. There's shouldn't be a goddamn sky above him. With a slow exhale, he tries to assess his own injuries despite the more pressing directive — to get up, goddamn it — but he's still too dazed to move. A shadow falls across his face, blue eyes filling up his vision. It's not Kirk.

McCoy tries to move, to at least slide a hand to the dagger at his sash and cut the bastard that thought attacking envoys of the Empire was ever a good idea, but his nerveless fingers won't follow his command.

"Shhh." The voice whispers through the ringing in his ears and two fingers fall on his lips. He wants to break both of them. "Sleep now." A hand closes around his, the skin cold, damn near freezing to the touch. "When you wake, you will be my Ar'eliy."

McCoy doesn't think that's goddamn likely, but his eyes slide shut anyway.

**II.**

He blinks, dipping in and out of consciousness, only aware of the soft stroke of fingers on his chest, his cheek, his arm, his hand. The touch is cold, like the flat edge of a blade sliding over his skin. Then it slips away, as easy and slow as a breath.

When he finally manages to wake — disoriented, cold, aching like his body is one large bruise — he's still wracked in a nightmare of smoke and blood. A soft 'shhh' reaches his ears like a note of music and hands press at his shoulders, pushing him back toward whatever the hell he's lying on. His eyes feel gummy and crusty, and his mouth doesn't feel much better, as parched as a goddamn desert. He runs his tongue across his teeth and breathes in, holding the cold air for an extended three count. It makes his chest ache, but nothing's punctured. His inner voice tells him that's a stupid assessment. He wouldn't have woken up if his injuries had been worse.

He rubs the crust out of his eyes to clear his vision. The first thing he sees are eyes so blue that they remind him—His thoughts falter. He can't remember what the color reminds him of, but it's so painfully familiar that he automatically reaches for something at his waist. His fingers close around air. There should be ... something there. Obviously.

A cold hand brushes over his forehead, breaking his thought and making his skin prickle. He flicks his eyes back to the pale blue face. It seems familiar. Thin, white lips, high cheekbones, ambiguously androgynous features framed by black hair — it comes through like a dream, half there and distant.

"Ar'eliy."

He cringes from the cold fingers that wrap around his forearm. They don't sit right with him, too cold, too slim, too goddamn blue. "Where the hell am I?"

"Where you belong."

"I—" He's caught short and flicks a look around the room. He doesn't know where he is, and as he mentally reaches for some recognition of his surroundings, he discovers that he can't remember much. There are gaps in his memory, large and boundless, like the last few years of his life didn't exist.

"You're on Märchenda." The rustle of fabric catches his attention. "Where you have faithfully served me for many years." He tries to place the face in something more solid than a hazy background as soft as the light that frames the Märchendan's face. Years. The familiarity should be stronger. "The Terran Empire attacked us. We were close, Ar'eliy. So close." He closes his eyes and pushes away the fingers brushing his cheek. "Are you well enough to continue your work?"

"What work? I don't even know who the hell you are." Or me. The thought sits heavy inside his chest.

"I am Queen Llevon." Queen. He looks at her — supposes a her by the title — and tries to remember when she touches his shoulder, the press of her fingers casting a chill through him. She looks sad, and he doesn't know how the hell he understands that. But there's a slant to her eyes that matches the downward curve of her lips. "You gave fealty to me when I saved you during the high winter." She touches him like she knows him, the tips of her fingers sliding up his chest until they wrap around the line of his jaw. He wants to pull away, tenses to do it, but her grip tightens. "You're my Ar'eliy, and I need you." He feels a cutting remark sharpen his tongue, a vehement denial that he doesn't belong to anyone, but then: "Don't let the Empire destroy the few we've managed to save and the thousands more that we must save."

Her second mention of the Empire. He can't ignore the cold weight the word leaves in his gut or the way he keeps closing his fingers around air, seeking something at his waist that should be there. He glances down as if he can jog his memory and once again becomes aware of the glaring difference between him and the queen.

"I'm not Märchendan."

"No." The soft, pale blue of her skin darkens as the light in the room dims. "You are Terran." She brushes her fingers over his head and taps his temple, one corner of her mouth pulling into a semblance of a smile. "And a brilliant doctor who managed to escape." She pauses. "Do you feel well enough to walk?"

He wants to say yes on instinct, but he's not sure. The uncertainty doesn't cool the visceral reaction that he needs to start moving — get up and get out. Now. So he sits up and swings his legs off the bed. It makes the muscles in his back and shoulders twinge, his heart beating harder like his body is gearing for something worse than a foggy memory and foreign surroundings.

Llevon takes his hands when he gets his feet planted on the floor. He immediately moves to pull away, but her fingers tighten around his, keeping him in place. Her grip is strong, but her bones feel thin and fragile. His first thought is to break them. She squeezes his fingers, interrupting the way his thoughts try to identify the frail bones at her wrist and how one sharp twist can break her hold.

"Lean on me, Ar'eliy. I do no mind."

But he does. "I'm fine. Legs still work."

He takes a few unsteady steps to prove the theory, but she loops an arm around his waist, and doesn't let him go despite the way he tries to shift out of her grasp.

"You need to be reminded, Ar'eliy, of the work that still remains for us."

She leads him out of the room and down a long, empty corridor, the tips of her fingers drawing soft circles at his waist. He searches for something familiar, something that's _right_, but it all looks strange and sterile, devoid of anything recognizable. He can't release the tension lodged in the muscles of his shoulders, and he can't stop shooting glances back over his shoulder. There's nobody behind them. No one visible anyway. The thought runs in an insidious loop through his mind that leaves him feeling exposed and too damn vulnerable in a corridor this big.

"Here." Llevon motions to a door that looks like all the others that they passed.

She sweeps her hand over a console to the right, and the doors swish open. This — finally something — feels familiar. It's a medical bay. Or what can pass for one. There's something slim and pared down about this one, the lights dim, every biobed filled with a body. He straightens and enters the room, and this time, Llevon lets him go. He stares at the large console off to the side, pretty sure this will give him the vitals and stats on all the patients, but he can't read the foreign letters and symbols that appear on screen. Seems odd if he's been here for 'many years,' but everything seems odd. Seems wrong.

He twists, heart pounding hard, and automatically reaches toward his waist for the thing that's not there when her hand lands on his shoulder. It's becoming more and more likely what he keeps reaching for is a weapon.

She brushes past him, either ignoring the movement or blind to it, and presses a hand to the console. She sings. Or it sounds like she's singing, but he can't draw on any memories of the xenolinguistics of the Märchendans. Or their xenobiology if he's been working on curing them for the past several years like Llevon claims.

The lights in the room brighten, pulling a shimmer out of Llevon's skin that he notices only because the Märchendans on the biobeds look more wan in comparison.

"When you came to us, the Empire unleashed a sickness upon us," she says, and motions to the screen. "It's crippling us."

He follows the motion of her hand and leans closer now that he can read what's there. He searches through the data and tries to get a feel for his voice in the notes, something that's him in the language and jargon, but the information is static. There's a list of symptoms — end result: death — and a growing number affected by this sickness. But there's no sign of his progress, nothing of his findings or estimations. There aren't even test trials for a vaccination.

"We need you," Llevon says, fingers brushing up his back.

"There's nothing here."

Her touches leaves a cold trail up his spine, her palm brushing up to his nape before she curls a hand into his hair. His hands tighten into fists, the muscles in his legs twitching to move —_ keep her in sight, not at your back_. "I have faith in you, Ar'eliy. Heal our people."

Her phrasing assumes a loyalty that he doesn't feel, but the compelling tone of her voice, the richness of it, hits something. Maybe that familiarity he was searching for in the corridor. He finds himself walking to the nearest biobed to examine the first patient. He stares down at the haggard face, bending closer to see if there's any further discoloration in the Märchendan's splotchy blue skin. There's a slight discoloration to the lips, a faint yellow undertone.

From that first quick assessment, he knows that he's going to lose this one in a matter of days. He doesn't know how to identify the frisson that curls down his spine, but it leads him to reach again for the weapon that should be at his waist. His instinct isn't to heal.

"I'm not the person for this job."

Llevon's hand closes around his wrist, the tips of her fingers following the thin lattice of veins to his palm. "You are, Ar'eliy." She slides an arm around his waist and rests her cheek atop his head. "For now, just rest. You can continue your work when you wake."

**III.**

Five years, and his life still feels like a dream every time he opens his eyes. It's the same task, the same lack of familiarity, and the same rock-hard weight in his gut that keeps him from sleeping easy.

"Ar'eliy." The only name he has left.

He never learns how to let go of his secrets, keeping them as close and as hidden as the knife at his belt, a knife that he's never been given cause to use but that he carries regardless. Seems odd that a blade is what provides him with the sense of right that he can't get no matter how many times he travels Märchenda's cities, roads, and facilities.

He slips out of bed, sweeping back the strands of his hair with fingers as cold and numb as the rest of his body. His own goddamn face is a mystery to him, but he finds himself staring anyway when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrors that line the wall of Llevon's room. His body is covered in scars, the slant of them solid and precise, some of them angled for non-vital areas. But most of them were meant to be killing blows. Whatever life he had before Llevon and Märchenda, it left marks as indelible as the chill he gets every time Llevon touches him.

He's braced for her touch when she circles her arms around his waist, her cold lips pressing to the hollow behind his ear.

"Ar'eliy," she whispers again, her fingers drawing patterns over his abdomen.

He tilts his head, lets her trail her lips down the shell of his ear, and listens.

~*~

He's not needed in medical often these days, not since he created a vaccine to bolster the Märchendan immune system against what they still suspected was radiation poisoning of some kind. The treatments work, so Llevon hasn't cared enough to ask about the cause of the sickness. Her assumption is the Empire. They're blamed for a lot.

Ar'eliy straightens when a blue-eyed Terran emerges from the space dock with the rest of the freight crew. Unlike the rest of them, he pauses in the entrance and sweeps the immediate area. There's a wariness and tension to his whole body that seems oddly familiar, but only because there are still days Ar'eliy finds himself doing the same goddamn thing. Guess they both have ghosts. Only difference is that Ar'eliy wants to at least get a peek at his and the man looks ready to gut his ghosts if he even catches a glimpse of them.

The stealth suit that Llevon gifted Ar'eliy with for these tasks is enough to conceal his presence, but he doesn't risk exposure. Technology malfunctions; technology led to this mess the Märchendans are mired in. So he sticks to the shadows and stays out of sight. The man, predictably, goes to the first hostel he can reach, just a few blocks away from the dock.

Ar'eliy lingers outside, waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon and the guards who'll assist him in capturing the Terran. The temperature cools the moment the sun is gone, but the suit keeps Ar'eliy comfortably warm.

He slips into the hostel undetected, locates the visitor in the computer, and heads up to the room. Ar'eliy presses an ear to the door as a precaution. He doesn't hear any movement inside, but he stays alert as he breaks the lock and creeps inside. The man sleeps restlessly, so Ar'eliy knows he'll have to be quick. He pulls the stopper off the vial — doesn't know why Llevon doesn't let him put this in a hypospray for ease of use — and approaches the bed. A splash on the skin, Llevon said, preferably the eyes for faster absorption. Knocks 'em straight out.

Ar'eliy reaches the bed, about to tip the vial, when the man twists. Startling blue eyes fix on Ar'eliy's face just before the man rears up, fingers clamping around Ar'eliy's wrist and propelling him backward. Ar'eliy's back hits the wall, his arm jerking from the impact. The contents of the vial splash his face, burning into his eyes. He coughs, weak and wet, and blinks, struggling to get a hand up to clear his face, but the man's grip doesn't loosen. Ar'eliy is shoved into the wall again, the back of his skull striking the stone. He shakes his head to try to clear the blur and hisses at the sharp slice of a blade cutting the skin beneath his chin.

"Bones?"

Ar'eliy slams his elbow into the man's jaw and shoves, advancing with a left hook that sends the man reeling backward. He tried so damn hard to suppress that instinct. He was a doctor, damn it. Murdering shouldn't have been a goddamn instinct.

Ar'eliy runs out of the room, fleeing the hostel, half-blind from the burn in his eyes and sinking fast toward unconsciousness. He hits the stairs, and the memories cascade in like a deck of cards, falling fast and chaotic. He's left in the streets, gasping. He sees one of the guards approach and moves before he knows it, pulling his knife and slashing the guard's throat. He twists and shoves his blade between the third and fourth rib of the second guard before the other guards react. He remembers, in the midst of the fight, that he's Leonard McCoy, CMO of the _ISS Enterprise_, and more importantly, _Bones_ to any goddamn fool stupid enough to move against him. Only one person in the whole of the Empire has the fucking balls to call him Bones to his face, though.

McCoy sinks to his knees. A blow to the head knocks him to the ground, but he digs his fingers in, struggling to push himself up despite the lethargy that envelops him. His eyes slide shut, and each hard, fast thrum of his pulse echoes one word: Kirk.

~*~

Llevon folds her hands in her lap, the shade of her skin darkening to a deeper blue, an obvious sign of her displeasure. "This is unfortunate."

McCoy lets the guards drop him to the floor and swipes at the blood coating his chin with the back of his hand. "What's gonna be unfortunate," he says, his drawl thick, "is the way you and your people die for this."

"I think not, _doctor_. This Terran—"

"Captain Kirk," McCoy supplies, getting his feet under him before he turns and spits, "of the _ISS Enterprise_."

Llevon's eyes narrow. "Has been detained. And _you_ will continue to perform the task assigned you."

She doesn't wait for McCoy's response, not that he had any intention of giving her one, and nods toward the guards. They escort him out of the room as rough as the way they brought him in, but it's only in the safety of the corridor that McCoy lets his smile slip free.

~*~

Three days later, when the guards bring the first Märchendan to him, McCoy is glad Llevon's here to watch.

"You're a doctor." She steps forward, touching his cheek and dragging a nail across his bottom lip. "You've aided us for five years, Ar'eliy."

He pushes her hand away and wets his lip to chase away the cold linger of her touch. "Name's McCoy."

Llevon's lips thin, but she steps back, clasping her hands in front of her, and nods. "Administer the treatment."

"Gladly."

McCoy loads the hypospray and jabs it into the neck of the nearest guard, simultaneously pulling the blade at the guard's belt. He has it shoved into the chest of the Märchendan that the guards brought in and manages to draw a half circle before the guards take him to the floor with a hard kick to the back of his knee, which they follow with another kick to his ribs and back. He didn't need to finish, though. He can tell by the look on Llevon's face that she recognizes the beginnings of the Terran Empire's symbol.

"The first thing—" McCoy coughs, clearing his throat, breathing in careful and slow. He catches the next kick, twists, and sends the guard tumbling to the ground. A knife to the Märchendan's throat stops the other guards from advancing. "The first thing they teach us in the 'Fleet," he casually continues, "is xenobiology. It's so we'd always know the best ways to save our patients. Or kill 'em if our captain required it." The corner of McCoy's mouth pulls into a smile. "Most captains require it."

Llevon's attention is captured by the body on the biobed. "What do you want?" Her voice is softer, almost lilting, and McCoy wonders if there's something different about the queen's biology, something in the tone of her voice that makes those who hear it more pliable.

Regardless, he shrugs. "It's negotiable."

Llevon finally turns her eyes to him, and he makes it a point to draw a thin line of blood from the throat of his hostage.

"I could keep it simple. I could ask for the man you've detained, Captain Kirk if you've somehow managed to forget, and my freedom." McCoy cuts a deeper slash, eyes narrowed on Llevon's face. "Then again, it's hard to forget how you kept me for five years like a goddamn dog."

"To help my people." She takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at her side. She tries to hide it behind her skirt, but McCoy still catches it. "_You_ and your _Empire_ brought this"—Her hand snaps out to encompass the dead Märchendan, blood pooling bright on the floor—"blight upon us."

"Is that what you think, darlin'?" McCoy laughs, full body and derisive. "The Empire isn't much into biochemical warfare. It has its uses, but it gets a little messy, handling all of that. Tends to carry a high risk."

"You have no respect for the living." Llevon takes a step forward but stops when McCoy makes another incision along the Märchendan's jawline. "There's no such thing as a high risk for you Terrans."

McCoy shrugs. "Regardless. I know what's making your people sick. You want to know the source, I suggest you free Captain Kirk and get us air clearance. Maybe afterward, we can talk."

Llevon straightens. "We still have the treatments, doctor. Your skills aren't needed anymore."

"If that were true, the guards would've killed me." McCoy looks at the guard nearest him. "Careful there." He keeps that guard in his peripheral but turns back to Llevon. "The treatment's only a temporary fix, but go ahead and try." He nods toward the computer. "I'm willin' to wait."

Llevon's eyes flash a dark blue and then pale. She turns on her heels and stalks toward the console. Seconds later, she's slapping the top of it. "You're a dog of the Empire," she hisses, each word a discordant note. "You want your release?" She whirls and stalks toward him, but McCoy kindly reminds her that he has all the leverage in this conversation. "If I were to release you, you'd slaughter my people."

"Keep me here and you die anyway." The smile spreads slow as molasses across his face. "On my world, darlin', this is what we call a Catch-22."

**IV.**

The lights are dim, the room bare save for a bed and a desk, both bolted to the floor, and Kirk is still smiling. His hands are bloody, knuckles scraped raw, a bruise blooming low on his jaw, but his eyes are still the same cold shock of blue, as sharp and cutting as the blade that McCoy wishes he still had. He's never faced Kirk without one, and even though Kirk won't know who he is, McCoy has no plans of underestimating him.

Llevon already made that mistake and her guards are dead because of it. Their blood paints a pretty picture on the wall, proving that Kirk is still as creative as ever. And still a smartass.

_"I was teaching them astronomy," Kirk said when Llevon was made aware of the deaths. That same cold, uncaring smile spread across Kirk's face — part dare, part 'what are you going to do?' -- the one that he killed with. "Class got out early."_

McCoy walks the length of the room, and now he can see why the splashes of blood felt so goddamn familiar when Kirk first started painting. It's the constellations, all the ones that would be visible from Earth. Which means the _Enterprise_ is circling Märchenda and that Kirk is here on a mission. McCoy touches one dot, the blood long since dried and the dead Märchendans carted away hours ago. McCoy's memories feel like that, fresh but old, crusted with five years of a stranger's life.

He watches Kirk crumple the note and bring his right hand up to his mouth. Kirk sucks the blood from his knuckle and stands. McCoy lingers in the corner of the room and watches Kirk treat it like a puzzle, defining its boundaries with a quick sweep of his eyes before he feels it out, hands sliding over the walls, investigating as much as he can reach.

"You try to work those bars loose, you'll get a shock for your trouble," McCoy finally says. The sound of his voice, distorted by a machine built into the stealth suit, is jarring at first.

Kirk whips around, back to the wall, something clutched out of sight in his left hand. "Here to negotiate terms?" Kirk pockets whatever he has before McCoy has a chance to look at it, but it's probably a communicator. If it is, he wants it to remain hidden.

"Terms are simple. You provide answers to my questions."

Kirk straightens, slow and practiced, but it's the smile that makes the skin on the back of McCoy's neck prickle. "And who are you?"

The name shouldn't slide so easy off of his tongue. "Ar'eliy." He pauses, watching the way Kirk tests the name, a silent movement of his lips, gaze distant and thoughtful. "Care to tell me who you are?"

Kirk shrugs and leans against the wall in a casual move like he's harmless, but McCoy isn't some foolhardy cadet getting his first run in with a 'Fleet officer. "Part of the freight crew—"

"Lying to me already. This doesn't put us off to a good start."

Kirk laughs, ducking his head and sliding a hand through his hair like a kid caught in a lie. "You're the one hiding." McCoy steps closer, almost close enough to touch and watches the dart of Kirk's eyes beneath his lashes. "Ar'eliy? Did I get that right?"

McCoy walks to the opposite end of the room. "Where's the ship?"

"In the dock."

"The starship."

Kirk shrugs again and looks away from where McCoy is standing. "In space if I were to guess. That's what starships are built for."

The stealth suit provides McCoy with so many goddamn advantages. It wouldn't be hard to get Kirk on his knees. Or on his stomach. It'd be hard fighting an enemy you can't see. McCoy's fingers twitch as he rakes another look over Kirk's hard, wiry frame. He's itching for it as much as he's itching for escape.

"I suggest you get used to your surroundings," he says, stepping quietly toward the door. "It's a step up from the hole they pulled you from."

Kirk's eyes land on McCoy, features sharp like he's working through something, his mouth pulling into a wide, sly smile. "A cage is a cage. I don't need it dressed up." Kirk glances at the floor, and McCoy is almost out the door before Kirk makes his move. "Ar'eliy."

McCoy lands hard on his back with Kirk's legs bracketing his hips, and then there's the cold rush of hair hitting his face when Kirk rips off the mask of the stealth suit, severing the connectors. It's the knife at his throat and the fingers tangled through his hair that keep McCoy still, though. How the hell did Kirk get a _knife_? Goddamn it. He must have taken it from one of the guards. Which still doesn't explain how the hell Kirk saw McCoy when he's wearing a goddamn stealth suit.

"Ar'eliy, huh? Queen Llevon's famed fucking physician."

McCoy tries to twist, but the knife at his throat keeps him on the floor. "Five years," he spits, eyes narrowed at Kirk.

Kirk's smiling like the goddamn bastard that he is. "You went soft, Bones."

Sparks flare in McCoy's vision, and he sucks in a sharp breath as pain bursts through his skull. The last thing he sees is that goddamn smile, as sharp and cutting as the blade.

~*~

McCoy wakes, abrupt and sudden, drawing on his memories like a well-worn blanket. He knows who he is; it's the where that unsettles him until he's made a full visual sweep of the room. The _Enterprise_. As he suspected. Which means the freight crew was a cover so Kirk could land on Märchenda.

"I advise you not to move, Doctor McCoy." McCoy turns and narrows his eyes at Spock, slowly sliding off the biobed. "We are under advisement to detain you by any means necessary if you attempt to escape."

"Up to and including a few broken bones?" McCoy snorts, flicking a glance to the left in search of a weapon. "I know the routine, you goddamn goblin. Where's Kirk?"

McCoy stiffens when Spock's hand lands on his shoulder. "I advise you not to resist, Doctor."

He's not given a chance to grab for Spock's knife or the agonizer before Spock has his fingers positioned on McCoy's face. So this is what it comes to. Getting mind-raped by a goddamn Vulcan. Traitor is the first thought that bleeds through, and McCoy fights like a rabid fucking dog after that. _Not a fucking traitor_, he snarls, and Spock's calm, _We will see_, only makes him fight harder.

Five years is a long time to re-live, a long time to see what the _Enterprise_ and Kirk have been up to. _Suspicions that the Märchendans are utilizing stealth technology—Investigation underway—Don't worry, Spock—Look what I found—This is an interesting turn of events—Detain him. I want to know everything_. McCoy grits his teeth — or thinks it — and fights tooth and nail to keep the rest of his memories to himself. There's no goddamn way Spock's allowed to all of him, not like this.

McCoy collapses to the floor, the impact making his teeth clack together as he struggles to breathe, shaking to get away from Spock and the goddamn memories. He wants to scrub his brain clean, the weight of Spock's mind as cold as Llevon's touch.

"It appears"—McCoy sucks in a breath and dives for the scalpel taped to the side of the biobed—"the doctor was telling the truth."

A hand closes around his wrist and twists, vicious and sharp, and his nerveless goddamn fingers drop the only weapon he has. "And the stealth technology?" Kirk asks as McCoy slumps, breathing ragged and tears pricking his eyes.

"His use of it was minimal. The initial purpose was to detain Terrans by use of a serum administered while sleeping. We can assume that this is how Queen Llevon has ensured a steady stock for slave labor."

Kirk nods, staring down at McCoy. McCoy wants to spit in his goddamn smug face. "Send an away team, Mr. Spock."

"Of course, Captain."

Kirk squeezes McCoy's wrist, but McCoy grits his teeth, refusing to cry out or beg for mercy. "It had to be done, Bones."

"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," McCoy snarls.

He surges to his feet, fighting past the shakiness in his knees, still aching from the impact to the floor, and goes for Kirk's throat. He'll tear it out with his bare hands if he has to, but Kirk grabs that wrist, too, and shoves. McCoy collides into the wall, and before he has a chance to recover, Kirk's got a hand tangled in his hair and slams his head into the wall. He twists McCoy around, yanking McCoy's arm damn near out of its socket, and pushes him onto the biobed, slamming him face down into it.

"Careful there. Unlike you, I don't have a soft underbelly."

"Soft enough."

McCoy winces when Kirk jerks on his hair, but he manages to tear loose, his scalp stinging from the maneuver, and almost manages to get free. Kirk presses his advantage and slams McCoy's face into the biobed again.

"Watch your mouth, McCoy, or I'll put it to use."

McCoy rears back again, but Kirk pulls harder on his arm, a sharp pull that nearly makes McCoy curse something fierce. One more pull, and he'll lose use of the arm.

"I suggest," Kirk says, squeezing McCoy's wrist, "that you get used to your surroundings. Otherwise, I can put you down in the brig."

McCoy shudders, biting the inside of his cheek when Kirk swivels his hips in a slow, hard grind. He spins around the moment Kirk releases him, but he's too shaky on his feet to make a move. He sinks to the ground, jaw set, and doesn't bother watching Jim leave.

~*~

McCoy bristles at being confined to quarters. They're not even his, just some bare bones room used for dignitaries. Kirk's undoubtedly spying on him, but all McCoy does is pace the room, eat when food's brought to him, shower, piss, pace the room some more and plot a way to get out of here and get back in the goddamn medical bay where he belongs.

When the security officer comes with his next meal, McCoy punches him and knocks him clean out.

"I'm a doctor, damn it." He punctuates it with a kick to the officer's ribs. "You need me, Kirk."

The doors swish open, and Kirk steps through, leaning casually in the entrance way with his arms folded across his chest. "That's awfully presumptuous of you, McCoy. And I don't appreciate you abusing my security personnel."

Kirk stares down at the officer, but there's nothing but hard resolution in his eyes, a soft slant to his mouth like he doesn't really give a shit either way. "Put him in the agony booth. Three hours," Kirk orders with a nod. His eyes find McCoy's, his gaze heavy and cold. McCoy's seen that look before. It's an assessment of usefulness, and he straightens beneath it with a grit of his teeth and a lift of his chin. "Take him to medical. Let's see how good he still is."

Kirk turns and strolls out the door as four security officers enter the room. They're not so soft that McCoy can steal one of their knives or agonizers, but the weapons he wants are in medical anyway.

~*~

M'Benga is as skittish as a spooked horse when he walks in and sees McCoy hunched over one of the patients. A spooked horse still has a hell of a kick, though, and McCoy watches out of the corners of his eyes as M'Benga slides a hand toward his dagger.

"Doctor," McCoy greets with a short nod. He motions toward the patient, hand open and palm up. "You're going to lose this one if you don't administer the anti-venom in another hour."

"Kirk's orders. The officer was derelict in his duties."

McCoy shrugs and turns, his arms loose at his sides so M'Benga can see that he doesn't have a weapon. He darts a look down to M'Benga's knife and arches an eyebrow, but M'Benga's fingers tighten on the hilt. With another shrug, McCoy turns his back on M'Benga and waits for him to make the first move. He doesn't disappoint — McCoy's death must have been convenient; promotions like that are rare in the Empire — but he's not good enough.

McCoy snatches the scalpel from under the blanket and swings. He brings his other arm up to block and hisses when M'Benga's knife slices into his forearm, but it's not enough. He jabs the scalpel into M'Benga's throat and uses the momentum of his swing to slice deep and fast. He lets the scalpel drop and dives for M'Benga's knife, snatching it out of M'Benga's hand and burying it hilt-deep into M'Benga's chest, between the ribs, straight for the heart.

Five years as Ar'eliy didn't make McCoy forget who he is or how the goddamn Empire works.

McCoy clamps a hand around his arm to staunch the bleeding, each breath a hard, heavy pull through his nose, and sets about tending to the wound. His arm is stitched, but his hands and shirt are still splashed with blood when Kirk strolls through the medical bay doors.

"I'm not as soft as you think," McCoy says and kicks M'Benga's body. It flops over.

Kirk shoves at it with the toe of his boot and then looks up, his gaze lingering on the dagger at McCoy's sash. He kicks the body aside and rushes toward McCoy, shoving him against the biobed. The kiss is rough and hard and draws a gasp from McCoy's throat before he can stop it. And Kirk, like the goddamn bastard that he is, laughs, pushing harder into the knife that McCoy has pressed against his throat.

"It's good to have you back, Bones."

**Author's Note:**

> Dubcon, noncon mind meld, and minor character death. The standard mirror!verse warning applies as well: This is mirror!verse. The crew loves shiny, very sharp objects, manipulation, screwing each other over, screwing each other, and when all else fails, trying to kill each other; therefore, this fic may contain potentially triggering content.


End file.
